


The Deviless' Canvas

by saiditallbefore



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Light Bondage, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV First Person, Vaginal Fingering, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiditallbefore/pseuds/saiditallbefore
Summary: The Struggling Artist's Model and the Quiet Deviless renew their acquaintance at a small salon, leading to an... unconventional artistic endeavor.





	The Deviless' Canvas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [farevenasdecidedtouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/gifts).



> I loved all of your prompts for this fandom and Sunless Sea, and I hope you enjoy! <3
> 
> Special thanks to Prinzenhasserin and ArisTGD for betaing for me!

The Quiet Deviless smiles at me from across the room. I don’t smile back, but I do let my gaze linger on the curve of her neck and the wisps of hair framing her face. Devils may do what they like, but my position in society is more tenuous. If the nobility should cease to find my art diverting— or should I court scandal— I would be right back where I began, in Veilgarden.

Consorting with devils is Not Done in polite society. At least Not Done in public. There is, of course, a certain panache to be found in having the favor— or simply the attention— of Hell. But all things in moderation, even— especially— intimacy with devils. 

However, no one can blame an artist for admiring a fine face, can they? Even so, I tear my attention away from the Quiet Deviless and toward the others at this salon. They include a few mid-tier politicians, several other artists, and at least one esteemed Zee Captain. I murmur the expected niceties to the politicians and drift toward my fellow artists, who I can hear swapping stories-- assuredly _not_ gossiping!-- about others who travel in our set. I've been holding onto a delicious rumor about a certain Tattooed Dandy, a patron of the arts, who had been seen deep in conversation with a Rooftop Firebrand. However, I am intercepted by the Quiet Deviless, who lays her hand gently on my forearm. 

“Would you call on me at my residence later this week?” she asks.

I raise one eyebrow, surprised at her forwardness. Normally the Quiet Deviless lives up to her name; if either of us in our little arrangement is forward, it's me.

“I would like your advice on an… artistic endeavor I am working on.” Her voice drops, and she smiles rather wickedly. More wickedly than usual. 

My curiosity is piqued: what sort of art do devils, even ones as _unusual_ as the Quiet Deviless, produce?

* * *

The Quiet Deviless’ residence is small, but fashionable, and located near the Brass Embassy. She welcomes me in, and serves me a cup of tea. I greet her pet bat, and pretend I find it as charming as she does. Really, though— bats are unavoidable in the Neath, but making pets of them is a bit too far for me.

“You mentioned an… artistic endeavor?” I begin, after the proper social niceties.

The Quiet Deviless smiles. “Yes!” She hurries over to a desk and pulls out a set of richly colored inks and pens. She places them on the table between us.

“I thought perhaps you would like to model for me?” Devils don’t blush, but if they did, her cheeks would surely be pink.

It is hard to imagine one such as her being a creature of Hell.

“Well,” I say, biting my lip in my most coquettish manner. “I do usually charge for my services. You would have to repay me _very_ well.”

“I would never dream of doing anything less,” the Quiet Deviless replies, eyeing me hungrily.

She arranges me on her settee, near a gaslamp that will set off my features well and keep away the gloom of the Neath. I wait for her to bring out a sketchpad or an easel, but instead, she takes my gloved hand in her bare one and slowly tugs the glove off. Then the other glove, from the other hand. She smooths them out, and places them on the floor next to her. 

Then she turns her attention to the tiny buttons that run down the front of my bodice. I move to help her, but she slaps my hands away and arranges me back into my position. As her fingers drift across my breast, I force myself to keep still. I’m a professional; I have modeled nude before, even for other lovers. As the Deviless removes my bodice, exposing my corset, she runs her long fingernails over my collarbone— not hard enough to scratch me, just hard enough to make me want her to touch me more. She folds the bodice carefully and places it next to the gloves.

Next comes my skirt, and then my petticoat, and the Quiet Deviless’ fingers dancing along my outer thighs and my calves. I try to hurry her, to get this exquisite torture over with more quickly so that I can temporarily forget the memory of her touch and become like stone, like a model should be. But each time I move to help her, she slaps my hand away, leaving my hand stinging and sore.

Finally, I’m naked on the settee, still arranged artfully. I wait for the Quiet Deviless to take her place across the room, or maybe to dig around in her desk a bit more for the sketchpad she still seems to be missing. Instead, she picks up the inks and pens.

“You seem to be missing a canvas,” I say.

She laughs. “What other canvas could I need?”

A thrill runs through me. I’m still not sure if this is a game, or if she really is playing at being an artist, or if it’s a little bit of both— despite the moments we’ve shared in the past, the workings of her mind remain a mystery to me. She is quiet and kind and lovely and a deviless who would gladly purchase my soul if I were inclined to sell.

She dips a pen in one of her colorful inks— a vibrant crimson— and holds it over my body, seemingly hesitating. Then she makes a bold stroke down my rib cage, followed by another, and another. The ink itches and burns as she applies it, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. When I crane my neck to see what design she is creating, the Deviless frowns at me, puts her pen down, and steps away for a brief moment. When she returns, she is holding a handful of scarves.

“If you can’t stay still on your own, I’m going to have to make you,” she says as she skillfully ties my wrists and ankles together, then ties those to the ends of the settee.

Apparently satisfied that I can’t squirm about anymore, the Quiet Deviless retrieves her pen and continues her writing. It is not the intimate touch of a lover’s fingers, but entirely impersonal— for all the attention the Deviless is paying to me, I might truly _be_ a canvas. The ink still causes some discomfort, but that only means I can feel each and every spot has worked her design. And despite everything, the feeling of her pen scritching along my ribs, and then on my hip and down my thigh, is incredibly arousing. 

After completing one particularly complex symbol on my thigh, the Quiet Deviless steps back and surveys her work.

“Are you finished already?” I ask, unsure of which answer I would prefer.

“Of course not.” She smiles, more sharply than usual. “The ink still needs to dry. But don’t fret, my dear; I’ll keep you entertained.” She strokes my hair and leans in to kiss me.

I have been told that devils are not truly made of flesh and bone, like the rest of us. That what we see here in Fallen London is just a form they put on outside the Iron Republic. I have always dismissed these rumors, but it is true that my experiences with horizontal refreshment with the Quiet Deviless have surpassed any of those in my past.

She deepens her kiss, and I’m still tied up, but I try to arch towards her anyway. Her kisses don’t burn, despite what is said about devils, but she _is_ decidedly warm to the touch. She pulls away, and even at a slight distance I can feel the heat radiating from her. She runs her fingers lightly, teasingly down the sides of my face. I moan at the loss of contact, and she presses a light kiss to the corner of my mouth before skimming down my body— avoiding the areas she wrote on— lightly nipping at my breasts. 

The Deviless flicks my left nipple with her fingernail, then swirls around its base. She pauses in her ministrations for a moment to examine the writing she’d left on my skin, then blows on it, across my ribs and down to my hip. I shiver— not from cold, but from the sensation. 

“The ink still isn’t dry,” she says, with a little smirk. She moves further down my body, getting closer and closer to my pussy, before stroking her fingernails down the insides of my thighs. My legs part, almost without my consent. I want her closer, I want her to touch me. 

But instead, the Quiet Deviless withdraws her hand. She kneels on the floor in front of me and leans forward, darts her tongue out. And I am no longer looking at what she is doing, because all my concentration is focused on the sensation in my pussy. Her tongue circles around my clitoris in unfamiliar patterns before pressing further in, licking along my inner walls before flicking at my clit again. 

I writhe underneath her, attempting to move my pussy even closer to her, to relieve the mounting pressure inside of me. But the restraints hold me, and the Quiet Deviless will not be hurried. She withdraws her mouth, and I moan in frustration. How can she torture me, when I am so close to completion?

But she only leaves me waiting for a moment, before she presses the heel of her hand to my clitoris, and presses her fingers into my pussy: first one, then two. Then she opens them up, stretching me further she inserts a third finger.

And as she thrusts her fingers in and out, the pressure inside of me finally comes to a release— I come, pulling against the restraints at my wrists and ankles, feeling nothing but the Deviless’ hand on my pussy and seeing nothing but the swirling patterns behind my own closed eyes.

When I am done, boneless and sated, the Quiet Deviless is standing over my head, still fully dressed and composed. She strokes my hair as though I am a beloved pet— like her bat.

That thought should discomfit me more than it does.

“I think your ink is all dry,” she announces, and presses a finger to her handiwork. Apparently satisfied, she slowly begins untying the scarves that restrain me.

“I think this...artistic endeavor...was a success,” I say, arching my eyebrows at her. 

“Oh, I think so, too,” she says, and for once, her smile is entirely devilish. 

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to insert something about the writing actually being the Correspondence, but I couldn’t find a way to insert that without it suddenly becoming about the Artist Model’s thoughts about being dub-conned into wearing the Correspondence and why the Quiet Deviless would do it and what happens next, and that wasn’t what this was supposed to be about.
> 
> [ Find me on tumblr!](http://saiditallbefore.tumblr.com/post/177347154308/the-deviless-canvas-saiditallbefore-fallen)


End file.
